


Lady on the Hill

by DemiGoddess



Category: Original Work, Sanguine Dreams, Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Blood, Danger Play, F/F, Fleshcrafting, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, Lesbian, Poetry, Sanguine Dreams - Freeform, Scotland, Teratophilia, Trans, Trans Lesbian, Trans Vampire, Transgender, Trauma, Tzimisce, low humanity, the monster bottoms, vampire, vicissitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiGoddess/pseuds/DemiGoddess
Summary: Olivia just wanted to go on holiday for the weekend to reconnect with nature. Instead she's drawn in by the strange vampire on the hill. Despite the danger, despite Rowen's utter inhumanity, love begins to stir like a coiled snake in both of them.**Despite being an AU, this story stands completely on its own.**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What if the embrace actually took properly, and Rowen ends up Tzimisce? Gayness still happens.

[May 29, 1932]

I’ve begun to question my judgement in this.

Leaving London for a weekend holiday, that was a good idea. The city is gray and stifling. My writing is prone to wither there. Reconnecting with nature and the land invigorates me. Skelmorie, and the surrounding wilds, seems like a good place to do that. Much is made of the Scottish highlands, but the lowlands around Glasgow intrigue me.

Climbing the hill this late in the evening has proven to be a terrible idea. I misjudged the time of day, so my hopes of sitting atop this hill and watching the sunset are dashed. I find myself scrambling out of the brush onto the hilltop tired and disappointed.

Then I see the view, and I find myself entranced. The Firth of Clyde stretches below me, a yawning void lightly dusted with stars. The distant islands are dark, indistinct clouds upon the water. The lights of the town below flicker, making it seem the last bastion of civilization against encroaching night.

There’s a soft rustle of grass beside me.

I start. Without realizing it I’ve moved forward into the clearing, as though drawn to the depths in front of me. I look towards the noise and feel my heart begin to race. There’s a woman there. Was she there before? I’m certain that I was alone until just now. She’s staring. Topaz-blue eyes bore into me, unblinking, and I can’t move a muscle.

“You’re new,” the pale woman suddenly comments, shattering the night’s quiet. 

Her voice is youthful and soft, with a gentle Scottish lilt. She doesn’t look a day older than twenty-two, and yet she is deathly pale. She’s draped in thin cloaks and robes bearing the plaid bar designs of the ancient Scots. Her face betrays no emotion and yet… that stare. Hypnotizing. Paralyzing.

I manage to force my muscles into motion, realizing that she seems to be expecting me to speak. “Yes,” I answer. “I’m on holiday from London. My name is Olivia and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I punctuate my greeting with a small curtsy. I flush and kick myself internally for the overwrought display. Her gaze follows me, but the rest of her is statuesque in its stillness. I hope she does not see my knees quaking. “I -- I apologize. Am I intruding?”

The woman finally breaks her gaze, pale blue eyes flickering towards the sea for but a moment. Nothing else about her moves. Who is this woman? Her eyes lock with mine again and I let out a gasp.

“Aye, you are.” She doesn’t sound angry, thankfully. “Though I suppose you could nae have known.” The wind rustles distant leaves. Her cropped blonde hair (a strange style, considering her outfit), whips gently. “You seem polite, anyhow. I am Rowen. What brings you to this place?” In her first display of emotion, there is a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“As… as I said, I’m on holiday,” I manage to stammer out. “The city is stifling. I write better when I can enjoy nature.”

The pale girl, Rowen, cocks her head inquisitively, though again, her face remains stoic. “An author then? Hm.” She finally moves, albeit slowly. Each motion is like the wind: smooth, inevitable. Calm, yet ready for violence. Her bare feet barely rustle the grass as she turns towards the water and sits down, crossing her legs as though in meditation. “I’ve only been to London for a wee bit. Didnae care for it.” With her deadpan tone, it sounds like a mockery of small-talk. “But I didnae ask why you left London. I asked why you’re here.” Just when I feel free to move, she glances back up at me and I’m transfixed.

“On this hill, you mean?” With effort I can shift my feet. I consider running. I don’t owe this woman any answers, and she’s clearly dangerous. I feel like I’m cornered by a wolf. One false move and I fear that I will not leave here alive. “I… came to watch the sunset,” I say as I take a half-step back.

Rowen’s eyes narrow. “Wee bit late for that, innit?” The distrust in her voice makes me wonder if staring down a wolf would actually be preferable. 

“Yes, well, I got distracted! I wanted to write poetry for the plants here, and I didn’t expect the climb to be so hard and the brush so dense.” I nearly trip over my own words. Why am I still here?

“Did you think at any point that this was on purpose? No one’s been to this exact spot in twenty years. Aside from me anyway.” Twenty years? Even if I’m wrong about her age this girl is not older than thirty! 

Rowen interrupts me before I can answer. “It doesn’t matter,” she adds with a shake of her head. “Show me what you wrote.” She says it like I have no choice but to comply. Perhaps I don’t. Before I can produce my notebook she is standing again. She’s taller than me by a fair margin, and I stumble backward at her approach.

“I -- here!” I thrust my little brown book out to her. The terror in my voice is more apparent than I meant it to be.

This ageless woman is still for a moment. “You are afraid,” she says matter-of-factly. I tense, expecting further comment, but instead she waits. Her eyes wander over me, not in lust but definitely in hunger. My black hair seems to catch her attention? The silence continues for what feels like an eternity. The adrenaline torturously burns its way through my blood. Dew has gathered on Rowen’s face, causing the pale freckles there to shine. She was like the wind not a moment ago, but now she seems to be a sea-kissed mountain not unlike where we now stand.

Rowen takes the book from me slowly. The smoothness of the motion suggests that she is taking care not to move too quickly, like she’s trying not to spook me. She’s treating me like a hunted deer! I hate how appropriate the comparison of a predator stalking its prey is in this instance. Humiliating. 

She opens the book and flips the pages carefully. She reads my most recent poems in silence. I wrote one about ivy on my way up here. 

To my shock, Rowen gives a faint smile. I’m not convinced this woman even has emotions, but the grin seems almost… sad? It is in this brief moment that I allow myself to realize that she is beautiful. What a time for dear, familiar Sappho to visit me! If the adrenaline wasn’t still pricking at my veins I’d laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Go,” she says softly as she hands my note back to me. Her fingers hold the cover almost reverently. “If you want to come back tomorrow nicht I willnae stop you… that is, if you bring more of your poetry. Maybe you’ll actually get your sunset? Good evening.” Her smile fades as she finishes. Without waiting for me to answer she returns to her seated position, eyes shut in contemplation.

I’m suddenly acutely aware of my every breath. The exhilaration of freedom rises in me. I quickly stumble my way back down the hill. What in all Hell just happened? Who is Rowen? Why is she so terrifying -- what is she?

Why am I actually considering going back?


	2. Chapter 2

[May 30, 1932]

I have never once contemplated suicide.

Despite my fairly uneventful life, I’ve always felt that there is something more for me to do. Something important. Stories to tell. People to take care of. I enjoy the work that I do, whether it is working the soup kitchen or writing my poems. That is fulfilling for me.

Yet I cannot help but wonder if I’m rushing headlong towards my own doom today. Maybe something in my subconscious is unhappy, and is trying to get me killed to end the pain. Surely no sane person would go back after what I just experienced! What I ought to do is blame last night on a fever, pack my bags, and hurry back to London. Instead I am asking around town about the creature I encountered on the mountain, Rowen. I resolved, over a lonely breakfast, that I am going to visit the hilltop again tonight. I have to know. 

The brick cottages of Skelmorie are warm and appealing. Thick stout houses that can withstand the ocean breeze and winter chill. The locals are friendly. They’re used to city folk on holiday but haven’t lost the tradition of rural hospitality that must be centuries old. It’s hard to believe that on the hill above this village lives a monster.

That is certainly what Rowen is. Her uncanny stillness, her complexion, and her ability to render me as helpless as a frightened rabbit, all speak of utter inhumanity. Is she some experiment from the war? What purpose would that serve? Is she a vampire? If she is, she is certainly no Bela Lugosi (although she IS much prettier). To even consider the notion is ludicrous. If nothing else, I will have enough spare flights of fancy for my next story! Yet, in the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” and it is utterly impossible that Rowen is human.

I don’t get anywhere asking after her by name. However, once I describe her appearance (leaving out a few details that would make me seem insane), nearly everyone confesses to having seen her. The adults are even tempered in their testimonies. They speak of her as a quiet girl who sometimes comes in the evening to purchase clothes and knitting supplies. Apparently she is well known in the local knitting circle, though asking them, she has never stayed for more than a few moments to deliver her own knitted blankets as gifts.

The children, on the other hand, tell a different story. The mere mention of her seemed to frighten several, which made it clear that many of the adults were suppressing their true feelings. I did not make friends during this phase of the investigation, and many of the locals who I had talked to amiably before now look at me with scorn. It gives me no joy scaring anyone so, but I have learned much. The kids know Rowen as “Ms. V,” and some have received gifts from her: blankets, candy, some spare pence. None of them speak of any wrongdoing on her part, and none have seen her for more than an evening, and yet she is consistently described as “scary.” 

Her deathly pallor, only seen at night, villagers afraid and coerced… it’s almost too obvious what is happening! So much so that I’ve begun to doubt my senses. Isn’t this directly transported out of Bram Stoker? Or is confirmation bias completely blinding me to a more mundane truth?

Of course, there’s a simple way to resolve this: ask Rowen. It seems I have a poem to write. I try to forget the fact that it may be my last.

__________

 

I managed to see the sunset this time, thankfully. The way didn’t seem as difficult this time. Is that on purpose as well, Rowen?

The poem I’ve written is short. It’s a morbid piece about the sun of my life setting into the depths of the sea. Death is understandably on my mind this evening. I hope it is tribute enough, as I put the last touches on it now. The sun disappeared some time ago.

“Bit cliché, innit?”

I jump and nearly send myself rolling down the side of the hill. She appeared looking over my shoulder so suddenly that I’m certain I will die of a heart attack before she does anything to me! Despite my outburst she stands up calmly. Same clothing, same impossible stillness. Those terrible sapphires meet my own amber eyes, although tonight her eyes are curious?

“Seems like you’re nae taking constructive criticism.”

Was that a joke? She spoke with her same eerie monotone so I can’t quite tell. It’s hard to believe that such a creature is even capable of humor. Regardless, I use the moment of levity to sheepishly brush off my skirts and right myself to a proper sitting position. My heart is racing.

“Well some things are cliché for a reason!” I shoot back indignantly, though the impact is greatly lessened by the fear in my voice. Realizing it may not be the best idea to seem hostile, I try to steady my voice as I continue. “Sunsets have been sung about for centuries, and with good cause! Besides, is it so surprising that death occupies my thoughts since last night?”

Rowen looks away thoughtfully. “Na, I suppose not,” her gentle voice trails off, leaving us in silence for a few heavy moments. “But if that’s true, why did you return?”

Good question. “I had to know. Surely you didn’t expect me not to wonder about you after last night?” Now that she seems to be talking more, I press my luck, “A vampire in Scotland? One doesn’t simply let that go.”

My host raises a single eyebrow. The motion is almost mechanical given that the rest of her doesn’t budge. The attempted display of humanity causes my heart to settle. Each bit of emotion I am able to coax out of Rowen is a little victory, giving me dangerous confidence.

“Strictly speakin, I should to kill you for saying that.” I inhale sharply. My fight or flight instincts reawaken and my heart races. “If I’m being frank, I should’ve killed you yesterday for trespassing on me. However, you brought a poem, like I asked, so you’re welcome in me tonicht.” She spreads her arms to punctuate her thought. It’s supposed to be a gesture of welcome, but there is no warmth in it. The way she phrased that is… curious.

“Thank you?” Now I’m simply uncertain how to feel. I suppose I should feel relieved to be treated as a guest rather than a meal. I fold my legs under me to right myself, and I have to resist the urge to pull pack as she comes to sit next to me. Instead, my curiosity takes over, and I lean in. Rowen does not react, and I get to examine her unmoving visage.

She really is pretty. Her cheekbones are svelte, and her soft jawline tapers into two thin lips that must have once been pink, but are now a pale peach. Boyish, in that way that is still certain of her own femininity. Dew is glistening from her eyelashes. Her robes hang loosely, but bundle up over the rest of her, revealing only her bare feet and hands -- those are claws. She has claws! Those were most certainly not there yesterday! Coming back was a terrible idea.

“I apologize again,” I blurt out if only to distract myself from those wicked talons. “For trespassing on your land, I mean.”

Rowen’s brow furrows. “No, for trespassing on ME! Land doesnae belong to anyone. Not you, na me, and certainly nae the bloody queen! There’s only the bits where we let ourselves grow, where our roots spread. I’m in this place and it’s in me.” She flexes her toes, clawing tiny trenches in the soft dirt. “The soil is my flesh and the water is my blood. So when you arrived here unannounced, you did so into me.” Her tone isn’t angry, but there is an iron conviction in her words.

I don’t understand what she’s trying to say. Has she perhaps gone mad from aeons of undeath?

“Well I’m sorry for… intruding on your flesh then,” I reiterate. She nods slightly, as if to assure me that was correct. “So you don’t deny that you’re a vampire? You drink human blood?” I begin to tremble as the words leave my lips. “You must know… yourself very well, having been here so long.”

“Na, I don’t deny it,” Rowen replies nonchalantly. “I take the steps I need to ensure me safety, and to have some bloody privacy. However, I absolutely despise hiding what I am. That was true in me life also. I feed on blood, aye, but I died in the war, so I have a long way to go before I truly know meself.” Out of nowhere, as though commanded, a nightingale flies into view. Rowen extends her arm and it lands on her palm.

“So that makes you not much older than me?” I ask in wonder, “Then why this place? Are you not lonely out here? You are not so old, is there no way for you to be among us?”

Rowen cocks an eyebrow. “Is this a visit? Or an interview?” I can’t read her tone. “I thought you were an author, nae a journalist. Remember, Olivia, that you walk a dangerous line coming here.” Again, her tone is neutral, but her hand clenches around the nightingale. It struggles in her clutch, but only weakly, as though it is writhing not out of fear for its safety but merely because to do so is expected of it. Rowen’s soft lips part, and I can see her fangs slide out. She bites into the bird’s neck softly and it dies without a sound. After a few moments, its limp corpse drops to the ground, a trickle of its blood staining the pale woman’s mouth. 

I suddenly feel very small. It was one thing for her to claim to be what she is, another to see her nature as predator surface in front of me. Why did I come back here? Is she playing with her food before she devours me? My heart is about to tear its way from my ribcage.

“I’m sorry I just…” how am I even able to speak, with my voice wavering so? “It seems I can do nothing but apologize to you, but are my questions such an annoyance? Is it so wrong to want to know my killer?”

The wind picks up in the silence that follows. Rowen slowly, so painfully slowly, licks her lips. Her dry tongue clears away the nightbird’s blood, and despite her cold eyes, she seems eager to do so. Her lips look tender, and soft. I must have left my modesty (and good sense) in London, as a small pang of arousal rises in me at the display.

“It seems it’s my turn to apologize,” she says suddenly. “I didna mean to say that I would be what kills you, though the urge to take you as a meal is more that a wee bit tempting.” Part of me is wishing that she would, if for no other reason than to get it over with. “You’re my guest. I invited you to me and I’ll make bloody well sure you leave me alive. What would me hospitality be worth otherwise?” The leaves of the trees seem to bristle at her words, as though ready to leap to her defense. “Understand, though, that I haven’t spoken to anyone this openly in a very long time. I am… nervous.”

I, on the other hand, am flabbergasted. The last thing I was expecting after my boldness was an apology! She remains statuesque, as seems to be her nature, but her eyes are cast down in what I can only assume to be shyness. Suddenly I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I cannot imagine dying, only to continue to live, and to do so alone with hardly anyone to talk to. 

It seems I’m not done being bold, as I reach out and rest my hand gently on top of hers. It’s cold, like running one’s fingers over ice, yet soft like silk. There’s no pulse, no twitch. The only motion I can feel is the prickle of grass against my palm. Her eyes snap to our connection in surprise. Ah, another tiny victory.

“It’s alright,” I say as though it isn’t utterly absurd to be consoling a monster. “Loneliness is something I know well.”

Rowen cocks her head. “Are you saying you’ve returned to the lair of a predator for the sake of having company?”

I can’t help but giggle a bit at the notion. “I suppose so! I can’t claim to understand you, but as I said: I want to.” It takes me a moment to process that truth. I thought myself mad, rushing back to her waiting fangs for the sake of mere academic curiosity. It makes much more sense that she herself appealed to me. Her connection to the land, the way she speaks, and the way she well and truly absorbed my writing. Of course it helps that I am slowly realizing that she is my “type.”

My host cocks her head back the other direction, moving back and forth a few times in deep thought. I can’t help but notice that she hasn’t removed her hand from mine.

“I dinnae that I can make meself understood,” Rowen replies with the slightest tinge of regret in her voice. “You call me vampire and you’re right, but you’re also limited in your thinking. I am more than story and fable. I’m the rain, often, and sometimes a wolf or deer. I dinnae ken how dead soil can relate to a human but I find meself wanting to try.” She turns to look at me. “Your poetry woke a sleeping thing in me. A writhing snake. I am cold, and have been for a very long time, but the way you wrote about ivy… you see with different eyes.”

I feel my cheeks flush. “W-well I don’t think I have special insight, but thank you.” I tighten my hand around her’s. “You seem to have many forms… I hope to see more, perhaps tomorrow evening?”

Rowen smiles. The expression comes slowly, like the opening of a tomb. Judging by the flutter in my heart, this is the ultimate victory. “Yes… I would enjoy that. I think I might try my hand at poetry for you this time.”

We exchange soft-spoken goodbyes, and I begin to leave the clearing. To think I came here certain that my life was at an end, yet I leave having made a friend. A strange one, but a friend nonetheless.

I take a glance back at where my host is still sitting. Before my eyes, every part of her turns a deep crimson, and her form collapses like spilled water. Blood. Rowen has completely dissolved into blood! Stranger still, the blood moves, by what I must assume is her will, and writhes like a thousand crimson worms into the soil of the mountain until none of her remains.

Just when I was beginning to feel safe.


	3. Chapter 3

Rowen’s claws are in me, gentle and cold. Her thumb presses against my clit with that same chill and I can’t help but thrust into her inhuman grasp. I struggle, but my arm is pinned effortlessly in her other hand. She licks her tongue up over my breasts and I moan unabashedly as presses my nipple. The scent of soil and blood is everywhere, intoxicating. I ought to be disgusted but I lose myself unabashed grotesquerie of it all. Her lips lay soft kisses on my neck, and I hear myself distantly begging her to bite me. _Please! Please take it all! _Her fangs slide into my neck and…__

____

I awake to a wet spot under the covers, my own fingers pressed against my lips.

This may be a problem. Perhaps this is all too much too quick and my feelings are confused. Two days ago I had no inkling of her or her kind and now I ache to know everything. I want to know her past, her abilities, her hopes and desires.

Her touch. Her kiss. Her bite.

I’m startled out of my breakfast reverie by a soft tapping on the inn’s window. At first I think it’s the radio, which I’ve completely failed to listen to, but when I turn I see a barn owl on the outside sill waiting patiently for me. Strange that she’s out during the day, but now I spy the small scroll tied to her talon with an emerald green ribbon.

I hesitantly open the window, expecting to have feathers strewn over my bed for the trouble, but the owl waits almost expectantly as I untie the message. I take a risk to pet the creature, and she hoots softly, leaning into the touch. I can’t help but smile at this adorable owl. The dutiful bird then takes off over the low red rooftops of Skelmorlie.

The letter itself feels… strange. It looks like paper but feels almost leathery. Perturbed, my eyes scan the missive within:

__  
Suddenly there are two sides to e’ry mirror  
And now I wonder how a snake sheds her skin.  
I feel us where discarded flesh turns to rain. 

_Miss Olivia,_

_I give you my feelings in poetry, like I said I would. I’ve digested meself and realized that meeting you has awakened me. I’ve been asleep for a long time. I hope that you’ll join me at me home this evenin’, rather than always on that chilly hilltop. I want to know you and know of you. Maybe dinner or tea?_

_Warmly,_

_-Rowen ___

__Then there is a crude map on the other side, directing me to a small house on the other side of the hill. I’m unsure what to make of her poetry. I can feel its deep sincerity, even if I don’t take its meaning. The body of the letter is considerably more… forward. At least my feelings seem to be returned? The offer of dinner is both terrifying and exhilarating, given what she considers food. I feel myself flush._ _

__I spend the rest of my day attempting to enjoy the sun. I have a feeling I will be spending considerable time away from it soon. The scornful looks of the villagers don’t bother me, but my own disregard for my safety does. I’ve certainly not hesitated to visit the homes of beautiful women in the past, but there is more to consider when the woman in question is a vampire. Has she bewitched me? Enthralled me with her dominating gaze? The stories tell of such. Then again, none I know describe the ability to turn oneself into blood at a whim._ _

__Either way I am ensnared. It is either by occult machination that I failed to resist, or by my own rampaging Sapphism._ _

__So… into the belly of the beast._ _


End file.
